


Quick Prompt Fills

by SneakyHufflepuff



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:06:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SneakyHufflepuff/pseuds/SneakyHufflepuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the title says. Will be updated as I fill some prompts.</p><p>1. Clint and Natasha are fake!married in Argentina. (prompt by sugarfey)<br/>2. Clint and Natasha at the Winter Olympics (prompt by freaoscanlin)<br/>3. Natasha's first birthday after she joins S.H.I.E.L.D. (prompt by sugarfey)<br/>4. Natasha gives in and lets Liho sleep in bed with her (prompt by crazy4orcas)<br/>5. Clint & Natasha, Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries AU (prompt by shenshen77)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Clint decided it probably wasn't a good sign that Natasha wasn't speaking to him. They left the air-conditioned airport in silence, Mr. and Mrs. Clint Ludlow, on the way to their hotel shuttle. They rolled their luggage past smiling taxi drivers, who were probably the most of the local culture they’d be exposed to as resort-bound tourists in Argentina. 

Their shuttle run was with two other tourists, an elderly Californian couple, who were commiserating with each other over how long the flight was. Natasha was eying them with thinly veiled disbelief.

“Sweetie, what’s wrong?” Clint asked, trying to remind Natasha of their cover.

Natasha just shook her head, and Clint wondered what he had been thinking, bringing her into S.H.I.E.L.D.. The great Black Widow and she couldn’t even play a happy newlywed?

“Are you two here on your honeymoon?” The Californian woman asked Clint, with what could only be described as a lecherous smile.

“Yes,” Clint said. “We got married last week!”

The woman winked knowingly, taking on the false familiarity that tourists shared in foreign countries. “I remember when that was me, longer okay then I care to admit. It was glorious.”

Her husband, dragging both their suitcases behind him, rolled his eyes. 

Natasha had somehow faded into the background, leaving him to deal with the woman alone. It was a long shuttle ride to their hotel.

***

Their room was the sort of modest luxury a middle class US couple could buy in South America: big bath, big bed and generic hotel room art.

Clint plunked their bags on the bed, and turned around to face Natasha, arms crossed.

Natasha glared back at him. “What?” she demanded, acting more like a teenager than a legend in the espionage community.

“Is pretending to be a newlywed difficult for you?” he demanded. He didn’t think he was _that_ repulsive.

“I’m in a country where I don’t speak the language, undercover with the worst undercover agent I’ve ever met, just so I can be a spotter for a minor assassination,” Natasha pointed out, her words clipped and cold.

Clint wasn’t a deep cover agent, but he could damn well hold a honeymooner cover for long enough to take out a corrupt government official. He glared at her, offended.

“Fine, you take the couch and I’ll take the bed, we’ll hit the beach in the morning. Unless that’s beyond your abilities.” Clint slammed the door to the bedroom.

***

He woke up to the smell of coffee, and walked zombie-like to the door, wearing just his boxers.

Natasha looked up from the table, where she was reading a Spanish newspaper, sounding out the words and frowning as she tried to learn a new language at a rapid pace. A mug of coffee steamed beside her, and she was dressed in one of the hotel robes.

“Hi, honey,” she said with a smile that was so unlike the Natasha he knew that it was creepy.

She moved to the coffee maker, poured him a mug and handed it to him. He took a sip and woke up, suddenly aware of the fact that she could poison him and disappear out into the world again.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Clint asked, suspiciously.

Natasha shrugged. “We’re at a beautiful resort, about to go to the beach, why wouldn’t I be nice to you?”

Clint took another sip of coffee, figuring he was already screwed if it was poisoned.

“I’m ready to go to the beach when you are,” she added, shrugging off her robe. Underneath was a skimpy blue swimsuit, the top and bottom held together by a a string.

Clint closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was going to be the envy of every man in Argentina. When he opened his eyes, Natasha was moving closer to him, smearing her lipstick with one hand. He cocked his head in confusion, then understood as she moved her hand to his face, smearing traces of the lipstick on his skin and lips.

“There we are, perfect. You have five minutes to finish getting ready,” she said with a smile, again not-quite Natasha. 

***

The beach was pristine sand and crystal ocean, a resort beach used only by fellow tourists and locals trying to sell souvenirs. Clint could honestly say he didn’t have eyes for anyone else but his “wife.” No one else could hold a candle to her.

Natasha and Clint frolicked in the ocean, making a picturesque couple. A group of teenagers were close enough to hear them, and Clint knew how far sound could travel over the ocean, so he and Natasha stayed in character. 

Clint splashed Natasha as her back was turned, and she sneakily took the legs out from under him in revenge. His head was submerged, and he surfaced to find her smirking at him. He tackled her, using his greater strength to dunk her in the ocean as she laughed.

“Truce!” Natasha said, gasping in his arms.

“Deal,” he replied.

“Clint, honey,” Natasha put a possessive hand on his chest. 

“Yes, cupcake?” Clint replied, with a grin, earning an elbow to his ribs.

“I kind of want to do something other than go to the beach this afternoon,” she said, with a teasing grin.

“Of course, sweetie, anything you want.” 

He knew he was going to pay for all of the pet names the next time they sparred together, but he was using them to separate himself from Clint Ludlow. Ludlow would say these things to his wife, but Clint never would, and that reminded him that the woman next to him, droplets of seawater running down her cleavage, was a dangerous assassin, his temporary partner, and it was best not to get attached.

“Hiking?” Natasha asked with a smile.

“Huh?” Clint said, temporarily forgetting the thread of their conversation.

Right, hiking, which they would use as cover to find the perfect spot to shoot into the official’s compound.

“But first, let’s go back to the room,” Natasha continued. 

Natasha dragged him towards the shore, in a way that no doubt looked lustful to any onlookers. He could hear the teenagers making lewd jokes behind him.

***

The second the hotel door closed behind them, Natasha pulled away from him, and moved towards their bags.

“Have you checked your rifle yet?” Natasha asked.

Clint’s rifle had been broken down, the components added to any of the half-dozen pieces of equipment an American couple might purchase before going to South Africa.

“No, I’ll reassemble it now."

Technically, he was supposed to be leading this op, but Natasha seemed to be most comfortable when she was in control, and it couldn’t hurt to make sure his rifle could be reassembled before they started recon. No point in sweating his ass off to find the perfect hill if he didn't have a weapon to shoot from it in a few days time.

Natasha quickly changed into hiking clothing, and then began doing her nails in a yellow that reminded Clint uncomfortably of a poisonous frog he had seen on a brochure in the hotel lobby.

Clint finished putting together the rifle. It looked good, and he wouldn’t be able to tell otherwise until he shot it. There was just one more thing to do before they set out.

“Agent Romanoff,” Clint said, using her title as he was confident in his and Natasha’s ability to detect bugs in their hotel room. Besides, any unseen listeners would have heard their cover being blown last night, thanks to Natasha's outburst.

Natasha’s head snapped up as she went from dull newlywed to Black Widow.

“Before we do anything dangerous, I need to have confidence in my team. Since we’ve landed you’ve been unprofessional. Tell me why I shouldn’t pull the plug on this mission right now.”

Natasha flinched, knowing that while failing a mission would be blemish on his record, it would probably end up with her assigned to paperwork or bodyguard work, or a mission that was designed for her to come back in a body bag.

She crossed her arms, yellow nail polish glittering wetly on her fingers. Clint let the silence stretch out, waiting for her to talk.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” she finally asked, real pain in her eyes.

Clint snorted. “I was just wondering that.”

Her face turned into a blank mask, and Clint realized with just a few words he had screwed up, for the umpteenth time in his life. Clint sighed, he wasn’t any good with this kind of stuff, but he knew, deep down, if he did this right, he would have a valuable ally and friend for life.

“I couldn’t kill you, because who you became wasn’t your fault. You needed to be given a choice,” he said finally. 

When he justified his decision to the council it had been cost-benefit bullshit. The truth was he didn’t know why he hadn’t been able to release the arrow that would have ended her life. But what he had just said was the closest to the truth he could think of.

“Okay,” Natasha said, seeming to take his explanation for face value. “Let’s get to work.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to this other short prompt fill: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1116325/chapters/2248528

Clint kept his face in his trademark cocky smirk as he passed Romanoff’s bodyguards, who looked more bored than scary. Two men, each over six foot, waited outside the range with the air of those who did not expect danger in the near or even distant future.

Agents Danvers and Drew were counting on the fact that there was only so much access that non-athletes could have, and the course was athletes and coaches only. This, and the races themselves, were the only times that Natasha Romanoff was free of her bodyguards outside the Romanoff estate. Clint had to make the most of it, though from the file Agent Danvers had given him, it seemed like the only thing he and Natasha had in common was biathlon.

He quickly put his gear in his locker, letting Romanoff start a few minutes early. Today he was focused on practicing his standing stance, which was about military efficiency, designed to be instantly adjusted. Hitting a still target as part of a sporting event was almost too easy, and required a different stance.

He took a deep breath and began to ski to the first range, noting where on the course small imperfections would either aid or hinder riders. By the time he reached the course, Romanoff had taken the set of targets the furthest over, and another man, a Canadian was next to her. He was obviously star struck, paying more attention to her than to the target.

Clint took the one next to the Canadian, and the three of them fell into a rhythm, waiting for everyone to finish before resetting the targets. Romanoff was good, but he was better. She missed a shot every once in a while, and it took her longer to get through her targets. 

After thirty minutes of this, Romanoff stopped shooting, put down her rifle and skied towards him, Clint took out his targets rapidly, showing off a little, finishing before the Canadian had even hit two.

“Clint Barton, right?” Romanoff asked, face open and guileless.

“Right. Call me Clint.” 

Clint could hardly believe his luck. His mark was doing the work for him. He stuck out his hand, which Romanoff ignored. Well, maybe not all the work.

“You never miss,” Romanoff stated simply. Her Russian accent was strong enough to be noticeable, but not to impede understanding.

“Well,” Clint shrugged.

“It’s a pity you’re not a faster skiier, otherwise you could be in the individual event.”

Clint laughed. “I’m just happy to be at the Olympics.” 

Romanoff raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Went unspoken was _this is why you’re in the relay team, and I’m the gold medal favorite_. She turned away, obviously ready to begin some other part of her training now that she had found him wanting.

“Ms. Romanoff,” Clint asked. 

“What?”

Clint searched his mind for something to prolong the conversation. Then he saw the Canadian looking longingly at Romanoff and inspiration struck.

“My niece, Suzy, is a big fan of yours. I was, uh, wondering.”

Natasha cut him off impatiently. “I’ll have something sent to your room so you can bring it back with you.”

“Thank you.” 

Romanoff turned the full force of her gaze on him, looking him up and down. Clint wondered what she saw.

“You’re welcome, Clint.”

Clint let out a deep breath as she skied away. That could have gone way worse.


	3. Chapter 3

Natasha woke up to the sound of knocking at her door.

"Tash, open up." Clint’s cheerful voice called through her door.

At least he hadn’t picked the lock. Still, glancing at the sleek alarm clock next to her bed told her it was a scant two minutes after midnight.

She pulled on shorts under her sleep shirt, and padded her way towards the door. 

"You and I need to talk about boundaries," Natasha informed Clint as she yanked open the door, yawning.

Her yawn turned into an open-mouthed look of surprise. Clint was waiting on the other side wearing his usual jeans and t-shirts, plus a purple party hat. He was also wielding a pastry box.

"Happy Birthday!" Clint shouted with a wide grin, his voice probably loud enough to wake the neighbors. For an assassin, he didn’t do subtle very well.

"What?" Natasha asked, thoroughly confused. She had no record of her true birthday, only her intake papers to the Red Room.

Clint snorted. “Don’t pretend. Dairy Queen keeps a record of all its customers birthdays.”

He looked so pleased at his detective work that Natasha didn’t have the heart to tell him she had made the birthday, January 30th, at random, just to get a free ice-cream. 

"Right, my birthday." She was still bemused by the fact that the man who had spared her, who she had seen kill multiple times, was a child at heart.

"I brought you chocolate cake," Clint said, opening the pastry box to reveal what looked like the most decadent chocolate cake in New York City.

"Thank you." She took the cake from him. "We can celebrate in the morning."

And she closed the door in his face. 

From the other side of the door she could hear Clint whisper “But… cake,” in a sad voice.

She might be reformed, but being evil from time to time was a little fun.


	4. Chapter 4

The wind howls outside and Natasha turns over in her bed, trying to ignore Liho’s accusing glare from behind the glass. Liho mewls and Natasha sits up to glare at her.

"Didn’t you hear me last time? I’m not letting you in," Natasha informs the small cat.

It looks more bedraggled than before. And is it shivering? Natasha grabbed her smartphone from the table to check her weather app. It is -3, Fahrenheit. 

"Chto yebat" Natasha swears.

She can’t remember it being this cold in New York, ever, for as long as she’s been here.

Sighing, she gets out of bed to let Liho in. The cat stumbles into the warm apartment, pushed along by a gust of frigid air. Natasha closes the window hurriedly and turns to see Liho curled up on the bed in the warm spot Natasha just left.

"Just as long as it’s this cold outside," Natasha informs the cat.

Liho meows in response, looking around Natasha’s bedroom like a queen surveying her realm.

"And I’m not petting you."

Still, she finds herself using her smartphone to google “how to deal with outdoor cats in winter.” No need for Liho to be frozen, just because she can’t deal with a pet right now.


	5. Chapter 5

“Well, I would say I’m surprised, but I don’t think you would believe me,” Detective Inspector Barton said.

Natasha looked up from the corpse she was examining, to see Barton looking at her with a poorly hidden smile. He offered his hand to help her out of her crouch, which she graciously accepted, careful not to muss her dress.

“Well, I am a private investigator after all, and it’s easy enough to tell when you’re lying, Detective Inspector.” 

She moved her hand from Barton’s just a fraction too late for strict propriety, and watched him blush. Nevertheless, his keen eyes examined the body with the experience long years in his profession had given him.

“Now that the police are here, you can return to your practice. I’m sure there’s a missing dog somewhere that needs to be found,” Barton said. 

She had grown fond of the detective inspector in their work together, but he still felt the need to pretend she wasn’t welcome at their crime scenes. Foolish man.

“Well, I suppose I can leave if you need me to, but the woman who owns the property _has_ asked me to look into things.” 

She had gotten to the site of the murder, a sheep paddock just outside town, a good three minutes before the police and had put the time to good use. The corpse was of a man in his fifties, and by the look of the veins in his face he had been a heavy drinker. Yet there was no sign of alcohol on his person. In fact, he smelled of shoe-polish and butter, strangely enough. His clothes indicated he had been a city-man, their shabbiness that he was not a wealthy one. The stab wound in his chest completed the sad picture.

Barton sighed heavily, looking between the corpse and her. “Any conclusions you’d like to share, Miss Romanoff?”

“Well, I do love to be of service to the police,” Natasha answered with a teasing smile. “He wasn’t killed here,” she began.

Clint nodded in agreement, surveying the trampled area around the corpse. “There's no blood.”

“And I’ll think you’ll find that cause of death was poison.”

“Poison,” Clint said flatly, looking at the gaping flesh wound in the man’s chest.

“If you want to know more, you’ll need to invite me to join your investigation.”

Clint ground his teeth. “Miss Romanoff, would you assist the police in this murder investigation?”

“Why, Detective Inspector Barton, I’d be delighted,” she said, allowing herself to gloat at his concession. “He was poisoned with nitrobenzene. He smells like shoe-polish, despite the fact his shoes have obviously never been shined since he bought them,” she explained.

“How does a lady of the peerage know the smell of nitrobenzene?” Barton asked, something like respect in his eyes.

“Reading. It does wonders for the mind.” Natasha gave Barton a wink, and moved to survey the surrounding area before the deputies trampled it beyond saving.


End file.
